A Friend
by potterheadedgleek22
Summary: The Huntsman was on guard of the most high-profile prisoner in Queen Regina's dungeon. It just so happened that the prisoner is also the true love of the girl whose life the Huntsman spared at the cost of his own freedom. What happens when they become friends, joining forces to help each other and themselves? Slightly AU, pre-slash James/Huntsman. Possible slash later.


**Author's Note: Hello! So I've had this idea in my head since I saw a picture on the Internet of James and the Huntsman together from the season finale. This is the first thing I've written for Once Upon a Time, but since I love the show so much, it certainly won't be the last.**

**This is very slightly AU, and it is preslash. However, I cannot guarantee it won't turn into slash later - don't worry, I'll give you fair warning. This is my first attempt at writing slash too, so feel free to let me know how you liked. This is a very unlikely but strangely okay pairing, and I felt like this needed to be done.**

**Warning: Mentions torture and currently is slash if you squint. We all know what the Queen did to the Huntsman - it wasn't even implied, they just sort of came right out with it. I don't feel the need to describe it in overly vulgar terms or graphically. I tried to keep it as PG13 as was possible, and will continue to do so.**

**Spoilers: Er... the season finale? Let's say "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," "A Land Without Magic," and "The Stable Boy." **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time, or these characters. They are just mine to borrow, play with, and put back nicely when I'm done.**

**Pairing(s): Huntsman/James**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 1: A Meeting of the Prisoners**

"Snow!" Screamed the prisoner for what felt like the millionth time that day. He continued to hurl himself at the bars of his cell, vainly attempting to break out of his iron and steel prison cell. His horribly futile endeavors were punctuated periodically by a grunt of pain followed by a wheezy, breathy-sounding "I will always find you." The man standing guard knew he could not take much more of this. The prisoner had been following the same pattern for days, screaming himself hoarse, trying desperately to escape, attempting to break the cell door down with his body until he ended up knocking himself out - only to revive himself and start the cycle all over again. The guard's heart strangely went out to this poor desperate prisoner fighting so savagely for someone he loved so dearly. Had the Queen not expressly forbidden it, he might actually have gone to comfort the prisoner. Alas, the guard was forbidden of speaking under threat of slow torture.

Not that he didn't already receive more than his fair share of that at the hands of Her Highness anyway. You see, the knight guard was not exactly a guard per say, but a prisoner himself. He was the Huntsman, the very one who had sacrificed his heart so that Snow White could live. He was trapped now in the castle of the Queen, made to be her slave, her pet, under threat of death. Because of the nature of his offense against the Queen, he was constantly subjected to torture, which the Queen had a tendency to get… _creative _with. The Huntsman had been subjected to things he could never describe, things that still brought him near tears with their simple memory. He worried that these very things might happen to this new prisoner, Prince James, soon. He was determined to keep that from happening. It was one thing that _he_ hadto undergo torture. He did not want another person to have to suffer as much as he did.

The Huntsman was not always on guard of James. In fact, more often than not, he was upstairs, out of the dungeons, and in a hell of a different sort. The Queen liked to torture him personally, usually inside her bedchamber. Whenever he would return to his guard duty, more shaken up than when he left it, the prisoner would be back at his attempts to escape, though more battered than before the Huntsman had left. Every so often, he thought of taking off down the corridor and talking to the poor man gone mad with grief, but he never did. What was there to be said? James was either going to rot in this dungeon or literally lose his head, never to be reunited with his love, and the Huntsman was trapped in the Queen's clutches forever.

It was the day James' real torture began that fate changed the story. How the Queen decided to put the Huntsman on the night guard of James, such a maximum security prisoner, he would never know. Perhaps the Queen was confident he would not stray from his leash. This was very true, of course. The Huntsman would never have dreamed of doing anything stupid; he'd already lost his heart. He didn't feel like losing his life as well. But it had all happened so fast, and he had had little control over it.

It was one day after his routine torture that the Queen had put him on the job.

"From now on, you will not be on guard of the prisoner during the day, my pet," she had drawled slowly, looking the man up and down. "No. Instead, I want you on the night shift."

"Yes, Your Highness," the Huntsman had answered stiffly. It was better for him, he decided. He didn't want to hear those anguished screams any more than he had to. They were devastating. It was some small comfort to him not enduring that sound. However, he also realized this left the Queen the entire day to do whatever she pleased with him. This thought made him want to dig a hole and bury himself in it.

The Huntsman continued his normal duties that day, and around the time the clock struck ten, he made his way down to the dungeons for the changing of the guard. Two other knights were taking their positions outside the door to the prison as well. No one paid him any mind as he entered and took his post near the corridor leading to the cell. He was just about to sit down on a slab of stone and try to make sense of a lifetime of this horror when he heard a very queer sound coming from the cell behind him. Curious, he took a torch down from the bracket on the wall and carefully made his way down the dark passage to the cell where James was being kept. The sound grew louder and more distinct the closer he moved to it: it sounded like sobbing. In the back of his mind, he realized that if he was found abandoning his post for no good reason, it would mean much worse than a flogging, but his curiosity won out over his fear and he pressed on.

Finally, he came to the end of the walkway, torchlight bouncing off the cavernous walls, and saw what he had only guessed at previously. Prince James was huddled up in the farthest corner of his cell, blood staining his clothing, his face smeared with dirt and soot. His chin was resting on his knees, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, and he was in fact crying, but in a way the Huntsman had never heard before. He had sobbed a fair many times over his kill, but this was a different sound entirely. This sound was a cross between the whine of a wounded animal and soft baby hiccups. It was a wet, strangled sound that seemed to come from the depths of the prince's soul and catch in his throat on the way out. It was agonizing to listen to and made the Huntsman nearly tear up the way he did over the animals he used to wound and kill. He had never heard such a heartbroken sound.

He bit down hard on his lip hard to keep from losing it. He knew Prince James was innocent, knew all he wanted was to be with the one he loved. What the Queen was doing, keeping them apart with plans to kill both of them off over some stupid stable boy (oh the things the Queen did reveal to him during some of his "torture" sessions…), was wrong and just pure evil, and he'd be damned if he was going to continue to be a part of it.

And just like that, something swelled inside him, something strong and defiant like the tide. He would no longer take part in the Queen's sick games. He would no longer be a docile pet. He quickly wiped the moisture from his eyes and peered around the corner. The corridor he had come from was dark and deserted. He listened intently, but all was quiet outside. He took that to be a good sign. He took a deep, steadying breath and went over to the cell.

"Prince James?" He asked in a hoarse whisper. The prince did not answer, as he was unable to hear the Huntsman over the sound of his anguished sobbing.

"Prince James?" He asked, a little louder this time. Still, no response. Frustrated, the Huntsman drew very close to the iron bars and said as loudly as he dared, "James!" At once, the sniveling man looked up, startled. His red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes were questioning at first, but quickly narrowed at the sight of one of the Queen's men.

"What do _you_ want?" He demanded. The Huntsman could tell he was attempting to sound powerful, harsh, and menacing, but he only ended up sounding tired, weak, and feeble.

"What's wrong?" The Huntsman asked, swallowing his nerves, carefully surveying the pathetic-looking prince, and avoiding contact with the bars as though they might explode on contact. He kept his distance and tried to remain placid as if he was approaching a frightened animal. The prince laughed bitterly and humorlessly.

"What's wrong?" He scoffed. "Oh, nothing at all. I'm just trapped in here at the mercy of the Queen while my true love is being hunted down for her heart. She could be anywhere, she could be dead! And the Queen has found pleasure torturing me in addition, as if knowing Snow White is as good as dead isn't torture enough. And I know… I know she and I will never see each other alive again." Suddenly, James seemed unable to keep his head upright; his chin sunk into his chest and his forehead dropped to his knees just as the sobs again began to rip through him, louder and more desperate this time, tearing the Huntsman to pieces.

"I know how you feel," he murmured quietly, taking another step toward the bars. James's temper flared at this, his frustration suddenly bubbling up inside him, and he rounded on the Huntsman.

"Know how I feel?" He demanded. "No, you don't know how I feel! I sit here and rot in this dungeon while the Queen goes after the one I love most for no good reason, and you help her! You are one of her knights! You could not know how this feels. So just do me a favor and go away." The Huntsman involuntarily recoiled at the ferocity in James's sallow face, the fire in his eyes.

"Really?" The Huntsman growled, slowly removing his helmet so he could see the prisoner clearly – and so the prisoner could see him. "Contrary to what you believe, I am just as much a prisoner here as you are, if not more so." This, along with the mask coming off, seemed to grab the prince's attention.

"In what way?" He said angrily, his voice rising to hysterics. "You are on her court! You wear her uniform, you guard her prisoners!" The Huntsman didn't know what it was that made him want Prince James to believe him. On the surface, it was mostly because he wanted the prince to have an ally, a friend, seeing as he was innocent and all. But deeper than that, in the recesses of his soul, something was tugging at him, telling him to tell his story, to get James to trust him. Because he was used to trusting and following those instincts and gut feelings, he forged ahead with his story.

"It is not voluntarily that I wear this armor," he explained softly. "Not by choice that I guard her prisoners – prisoners that are usually innocent people at the wrong end of her wrath. No. I am imprisoned in a different way. Leaving here means instant and painful death. You think the Dungeon Master is unspeakably cruel with his whip, yet my torture is far less merciful than even that. Where you have been tortured once, I am subjected to unspeakable agony thrice daily at the hands of the Queen herself, for far longer than the Dungeon Master could ever dream of beating you." For a second, the prince hesitated. Something changed in his face as though he was starting to believe the Huntsman. Then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed and he was again angry and disbelieving.

"Oh please," James snapped. "Do you see these wounds?" He lifte4d his shirt, exposing his bare, abused back. The Huntsman flinched. It really did look bad – though not nearly as bad as his own injuries. "How much worse can yours be? A whip is a whip."

"Good sir," the Huntsman said, his own sorrow flooding into his eyes. "The Queen herself isn't much for whips."

"Then how-" James started to demand, but the Huntsman held up his hand to stop him and slowly began removing his breastplate and arm covers. He cringed slightly as his hand made contact with his injured appendage, and he slowly rolled up his mesh sleeve, exposing his bare arm. It definitely did not look like an arm, however. Instead of being flesh-colored, it was almost entirely purple and blue with bruises and swollen to about twice the size of a normal arm. His wrist was still red and raw from where the Queen's chains had cut into it during the day's "session." James gasped at the sight. The Huntsman examined the appendage as if seeing it for the first time.

"Worse than last week," he commented softly, mostly to himself. James continued to stare at the awful state of the other man's limb.

"What…," he asked, horrified. "What does…?" He was unable to speak clearly, dumbstruck by the idea of how much pain the Queen must have caused this man before him.

"What does she do to me?" The Huntsman finished for the incoherent prince. "Horrible things I don't wish to describe. It's worse on other areas of my body, believe me. Most of the pain in my arm is concentrated to here," – the Huntsman gestured to his wrist – "where her chains cut into me. I barely feel the bruises anymore." James was finally silenced as it occurred to him how much hardship and ill-treatment the other man had been through. Finally, he asked the question the Huntsman was most eager to answer.

"What did you do to deserve such torture?"

"Something Regi-the Queen could never forgive," he said softly. "I disobeyed her orders, and I tried to trick her."

"Orders?" James asked shrewdly, his eyes narrowing. "You worked for her once?"

"I suppose you could say that," the Huntsman said slowly. "I was hired to her service to do a deed she herself is still incapable of doing." He knew he was being rather brazen to badmouth the Queen with so many guards just outside the prison walls, but he was feeling particularly brave at the moment. "I was hired to kill Snow White."

"You… you…," James was once again lost for words. His Snow was still alive, which could only mean one thing. "You didn't kill her?"

"How could I?" The Huntsman said savagely. "She's even purer than the animals I was used to killing. So fragile, so… innocent. I could never have killed her. I offered the Queen the heart of a stag instead after I had let the girl go free, but it didn't work and she took my heart in place of the one I had failed to retrieve for her. Now, because of that, I am trapped here in her castle as her pet." The man shuddered. "It's terrible." James sat still and silent for a long time.

When he spoke again, his words were gentle for the first time since the conversation had begun. "Thank you."

"For what?" The Huntsman said curtly. "I did nothing."

"You spared her life," James countered. "You made it possible for us to be together. And for that, I thank you. I owe you both our lives. And I apologize for my harsh and rash judgment of you. I see now that you are not like the others." Suddenly, James cringed. Based on the amount of blood on his clothing, the Huntsman deduced that his back was probably stinging, and the wounds had probably begun to bleed again.

"Here," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and stepping over to the rusty pail of water the prisoners down this hallway drank from. He soaked the cloth in the lukewarm water. It was the best he could do at the moment. He moved back over to the cell.

"Remove your shirt and come as close to the bars as you can," he prompted. Cautiously, James did as he was told. At the site of his bare back, the Huntsman almost had to be sick. James' flesh was torn up, the lines of the whip clearly visible, some wounds still oozing blood. With a steady, careful hand, the Huntsman carefully wiped the blood off James's back. Except for a few stray gasps here and there, James stayed still and silent and allowed himself to be cared for.

"I know of a medication that can help soothe and heal this," the Huntsman said softly. "I will make it for you tomorrow when I can."

"Why?" James whispered.

"Because this is a bad injury," the Huntsman answered.

"No, I mean, why are you helping me?" The prince asked softly. The other man thought a moment before he answered.

"Because we're on the same side," he answered simply and finished cleaning the blood off the prince's body. When he had done this, James put his shirt back on. The Huntsman awkwardly began to retreat back down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" James asked, his voice almost panicky.

"It is a capital offense to leave one's post as one of the Queen's men," he said. "I must go back. And you must rest now. But I'll return tomorrow at the same time and we will speak again." He looked at the prisoner a long moment, taking in all his features. "I am breaking all the Queen's statutes and entrusting my life to you by doing this," the Huntsman told the prisoner, a hint of a quiver in his voice. "Do not breathe a word of this to anyone. It may be the last thing either of us do."

"I won't," James promised, his own eyes wide as he realized the magnitude of the situation and just how much this man was risking by doing him this kindness. Satisfied, the Huntsman turned to go.

"Wait!" James cried, suddenly anxious, reaching through the bars. The Huntsman turned around.

"May I at least know the name of my guardian angel?" The prince asked. The Huntsman started. No one within the castle walls had ever asked him his name before. In fact, he had nearly forgotten his own name, as no one in the castle used it – it wasn't important since he was property and not a person. This question brought up about a dozen memories in his head. His name. He was named after his long-deceased grandfather. His name meant gravelly homestead, which was a total paradox to his entire life, as he'd never really had a home save the forest. He bit his lip. It had been so long since he'd heard it said. Could his own voice even pronounce it anymore?

"Graham," he said slowly. "My name is Graham." And without another word, he hurried back down the corridor and to his post.

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**A/N: So that's it for now! I hope to be back soon with more. Until then, reviews are always appreciated. I hope you don't mind, I figured Graham's name wouldn't change from Fairy Tale Land to Storybrooke since his "name" in FTL was "the Huntsman." Anyway, hope you liked!**

**Ciao,**

**~PG22 **


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